


Whumptober 2019

by Storm337



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asphyxiation, Blood, Body Horror, Child Abandonment, Constriction, Fever, Gen, Graphic Description, Healing wounds, Hypothermia, Implied Nudity, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Infection, MAJOR GORE, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, Mutilation, Naga, Sleep Deprivation, Sympathetic Deceit Sanders, Sympathetic Remus Sanders, Violence, naga!Deceit, pus, self injury, slightly unsympathetic Patton, unsympathetic morality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storm337/pseuds/Storm337
Summary: This is just an excuse for me to seriously mess up Deceit.Tags to be updated with each new chapter. Warning: this is gonna be brutal.Day 10 - Isolation





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Hypothermia, implied character death

His hand shakes. It hasn’t stopped shaking for a long time.

His exhale fogged, a big puff of white bright in the air before his eyes. Deceit watched it vanish, taking the little warmth from inside of his body with it. Breathing hurt, his lungs ached with how bitterly chilled they were. Long ago the left side of his body had gone numb. Only the right side continued to pitifully quiver, trembling desperately in an attempt to get warm. 

It wasn’t possible for Sides to die, not unless Thomas himself died. They could fade, their physical form crumbling away until they were nothing but a function that happened automatically. No personality, no sway, no say. Just a thing that existed in the mind.  
But they couldn’t die. Thomas still needed their abilities, so they didn’t die, by technical terms. 

It was like dying.  
It was so very much like dying. 

Deceit was pretty sure he was going to die. 

There is nothing before him or behind him, nothing above or below. The nothing stretches endlessly in every direction. It is bleak and blank, no horizon line, no detail, no nothing. Yes, nothing. Nothing everything. Nothing in the nothingness. 

Even his thoughts were nothing. 

At least if there was snow, some kind of ice, anything resembling something that produces cold in reality, Deceit could blame his predicament on it. He could blame something else for his demise. There is nothing. He has nothing to blame, no one but himself. 

Funny, since he can’t even remember how he got here. 

Maybe this is all there is. Maybe there was no before this. Maybe it’s always just been this. The cold and the nothing and Deceit. Just Deceit, moving in a direction that he can’t even call forward. Moving endlessly. 

It hurts to think that the others don’t exist. It hurts to think that his memories are nothing but lies he’s told to himself, lies he’s made himself think are true. Fooled, just like he hadn’t fooled the others, since they don’t exist. 

No Virgil, no swapping music and arguing about why Three Days Grace is so much better than Breaking Benjamin. No Remus, no pester some pranks and rough wrestling across the living room floor. No Roman, no passionate poetry readings and hour spent practicing fight choreography on stage. No Logan, no dry whit and long discussions about the merits of philosophers. No Patton, no sunny smiles and baking cookies at midnight in a warm kitchen. 

No family. No warmth. 

Between one blink and the next Deceit is on the ground. Maybe. He could be on the ceiling for all that this place makes sense. His shoulder should complain from the impact, but he doesn’t feel anything. A glance confirms that it’s still there. He doesn’t think he’d particularly care if it wasn’t. 

Deceit lets his eyes fall closed. It’s too hard to keep them open any longer. It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing to see anyway. His body is going numb, the faintest prickles of ice forming over his skin tapping at the back of his hazy mind. His clothes get stiff but it doesn’t matter. Not like he’s going to be moving again anyway. Moving requires energy, and Deceit doesn’t have any left. It’s leaving him with every exhale. 

Deceit was going to die here. 

At least, he thinks, thoughts drifting further and further away, that he had his lies to keep him warm. Lies, when you believed in them enough, could become truth. Maybe, if he just kept imagining those times, those family dinners and movie nights, they would become real. Maybe, if he believed in Virgil, Remus, Roman, Logan, and Patton enough, they would be true. Maybe… 

He feels warm. The softest slightest bit of warmth curled in his belly like a snake coiling up to sleep. Sweet merciful heat. 

Deceit smiles, and the shaking finally stops.


	2. Dragged Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mild descriptions of gore for Remus, unsympathetic Morality (but not Patton), dad!Deceit AU
> 
> Snake dad loses his not so scaley sons and is devastated.

Remus screamed. He screamed and he sobbed and he reached, stretching his arms as far out as he could, hyperextending his fingertips. He imagined his limbs pulling like taffy, flexible and boneless, able to go so much further, but nothing happened. His body pleaded with him to stop trying, to stop pulling on the well of creativity that resided within him, but his mind screamed for him to keep going, even if the endeavor was fruitless. Maybe next time something would. Maybe this time it would work. The distance between them was growing farther and father, inch by merciless inch. If he just reached a little further, if he just stretched a bit more, if he tried again harder and harder and harder, just maybe he could bridge the gap. 

Virgil was wailing, anguished shrieks shaking the air like thunder. He clung desperately to Remus, arms so tight around the other Side’s waist that there were sure to be bruises. His nails tore through Remus’s shirt, down to the skin, angry red lines marring his stomach. It was a miracle he hadn’t broken skin yet. Virgil’s heartbeat so fast it felt like it would explode. It had lodged itself in his throat, making it so much harder to breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see through the tears, the ugly sobs that throttled his tight lungs. He couldn’t breathe. 

“Please,” Deceit begged, pulling at the hands holding him back. So many hands. “Please. Please give them back, please, please-”

The hands tightened on his wrists, all six of them. He felt bone grind against bone. Something would snap, eventually. They could break his wrists as many times as they wanted though. He’d still reach for them. He’d still strain and tug and lean, lean as far forward as he could in their cruel grasp. 

“I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be good just- just give them back please give them back.” 

The distance just kept growing. 

“Dad!” 

It broke his heart more than anything else. His body could take it, his body didn’t matter, but his heart- they were pulling it apart, ripping the most essential pieces from him. Deceit cried slow warm tears down his face. His knees ached on the ground, his arms strained and his shoulders threatened to pop out of their sockets. 

Not his boys. Anything but his boys. They didn’t deserve this. They hadn’t the first time either.  
Not his boys.  
Please god, not his boys. 

“Daddy!” 

It took three days before he found Remus in the Unconscious. Three days where he was looking, actively scouring the barren grey landscape for the other half of creativity. Who knows how long Remus was there before that. 

Morality.  
Morality knew- or at least, the last Morality had known. 

Three days too late. Maybe if he’d gotten there a day earlier he could have saved all of Remus, but he had been too late. Remus was broken. His mind had shattered in those days of isolation, driven to the breaking point by the depressing crush of loneliness and lies. 

Ironic, that it would be Deceit to find him.  
Ironic, that it would be Deceit to care for him. 

Remus never recovered. He forgot, for periods of time, but he never healed. Deceit still loved him, jagged pieces and all. Every tantrum, every lapse of dissociation, every scream and bite and sleepless nights. It was all worth it. The scared little boy he had carried to the Subconscious, trembling and twitching and babbling horrid nonsense, grew. Despite it all, Remus absolutely blossomed. For the first time in their lives they thrived. They thrived together. 

Deceit made it on time for Virgil. If anything he was early. 

Morality appeared and Deceit had ripped the baby from his arms, curling all of his around the little bundle wrapped in black. He cooed to Virgil, rocking him back and forth while he waited for Morality to vanish. He laughed when Virgil reached up to touch his scaled cheek, big glistening eyes wide with curiosity instead of fear. Virgil spent only a few minutes in the Unconscious before Deceit brought him home. Virgil came into his life whole. 

Where Remus was loud, Virgil was quiet. Where Remus was extravagant, Virgil was simple. Where Remus screamed, Virgil cried. He was not perfect, but that was why Virgil was with him. Deceit didn’t want perfect, he didn’t want what Morality had kept. He wanted his boys, his two precious boys. 

Creativity and Anxiety. Remus and Virgil. The sons Deceit never thought he’d have, but the ones he embraced, the ones he loved. Demented creations and panic attacks and all. Deceit wouldn’t give them up for anything. Sometimes he thought he loved them even more than he loved Thomas. 

He loved them like the last Morality couldn’t.  
Yet here they were. 

Virgil was reaching now, daring to let go of Remus to claw at the space between them. Remus was struggling, biting at the shadowy shapes that dragged them away, closer and closer to the bright door. He thrashes and growls like a beast, flailing wildly, desperately. Virgil hiccups and he struggles to breathe after. Deceit feels his own throat close in sympathy. 

“I’ll find you!” Deceit cries back, pouring all of the truth he’s ever hoarded into the words. His tongue stings, the words white-hot. “I’ll get you back I promise! I promise!” 

The door flies open. It is so unbelievably bright, piercing yellow light. Virgil goes quiet, frozen in fear. Remus starts to chew at his own wrist, in an attempt to getaway. He rips an artery and blood spurts everywhere. Deceit pushes on his knees. Four of his shoulders give way, the sickening wrenched POP lost in the pounding of blood in his ears. 

“I’ll get you back! I’ll find you! I’ll always find you!” 

His boys are pulled into the light and the door slams shut. The hands disappear, and Deceit hurls himself across the space. The knob won’t turn. It disappears completely as he shakes it. He rakes his fingers down the wood until the grooves are deep and his nails have broken off, slick red tracks left in his wake. 

“I’ll find you,” Deceit whispers, pressing his forehead painfully against the door. “I’ll save you, I promise, I promise.” 

They didn’t deserve this. They hadn’t the first time either.  
But Deceit had found them.  
He’d found them once, and he’d do it again.


	3. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied and aftermath of torture, blood, slight body horror - multiple limbs, slight gore in the form of Remus, sympathetic Remus, implied other sides

It is sickening to see, even for Remus. Not because it is overly bloody or gory, not because it is an affront to human nature, not because it would make anyone else throw up. No, it is sickening because Remus didn’t do this. 

Someone else did this to Deceit. 

The others flee back out into the hallway. He can hear crying, disgusted sobbing that squeezes the lungs and burns the eyes and rips into the heart. At least two of them are throwing up. He wouldn’t be surprised if one was Patton. The other might be Virgil. Some noises become muffled, faces hidden against trembling bodies. Roman pressing against Logan, probably. 

The others are useless, so Remus steels himself and steps into the room. 

Deceit flinches. The sound of his chains rattling is loud. There are so many of them, an obscene amount. 

Each wrist is shackled, arms pulled behind Deceit’s back and locked together at the bicep in a contorted mess of packed limbs. The iron band around his waist rubs his skin raw, the edge cuts through the vulnerable flesh of his stomach. His legs are completely wrapped in chains, coiled in a sick mimicry of a constrictor from thigh to ankle. 

Remus’s blood boils when he spots the key, hanging innocently from the thick crude collar around Deceit’s neck. It sits in the hollow of his clavicle, so close and yet so far. The sides of the collar have sliced grooves into Deceit’s shoulders and jaw. Remus can imagine him thrashing, rolling and twisting, trying to knock the key free or break his arms out. He can imagine the way his own blood made the slide easier, the way the liquid briefly warmed his skin, how the key dragged tantalizingly through it. He can imagine Deceit losing energy, slowing down as his attempts only bring him further pain, further reminder of how trapped he is. 

Remus sinks his nails into his palms and marches. 

Deceit tries to wiggle away this time, breaths coming out rapid with panic. He’s afraid, truly scared, and Remus chokes on a whimper that threatens to snap his trachea. 

Never has Deceit been afraid of him, not actually afraid. They joke and they play and Remus is a bit...much, he knows that, but Deceit has never feared for himself around Remus. Remus would never actually kill Deceit. 

Never. 

It makes him wonder who could have made Deceit this scared if he, the most demented side, didn’t have a hand in it. 

Whoever they are, Remus is going to show them the full force of his creativity. 

“Shhhhh, hey- hey it’s okay Dee Dee, it’s okay.” 

Deceit abruptly stops moving. Remus kneels slowly into his line of sight, pushing his clenched fists against his cold knees. Both eyes are glazed, hazed with pain and cold and trauma. Remus wants to hide Deceit in his tallest tower, he wants to lock all of the doors and seal the windows and transform into the ugliest tentacle dragon Thomas can think of to keep him safe. He will burn anyone who dares get close, he’ll wrap them up in his tendrils and squeeze until their eyes pop out of their skulls and their ribs snap like twigs, impaling their own innards. 

“Re-Remus?” 

The soft hopeful tone in Deceit’s hoarse voice just about breaks his heart. He thinks of broken bones piercing skin and decapitation to keep it together. It only sort of works. 

“The one and loathly.” 

Watching Deceit’s lips quirk, even just slightly, sends Remus soaring. He’s careful when he reaches out, and tries not to take the flinch personally. Deceit is probably sore and chilled, he tells himself, carefully maneuvering the snake into his lap. The lying side sinks against his thigh, eyelids fluttering with the effort to stay open. He makes a gravely moaning sound when Remus drags his fingers through his greasy wild hair. 

“Kinky.” 

The laugh that comes out is one of surprise, a bit strained and hysterical, but Remus will take it. Hysterical laughter is the best laughter. 

“‘m gonna get you out of here Double D. We’re gonna go back to the castle and I’ll light the whole room on fire for you. You’ll never have been warmer.” 

Whatever sense of consciousness Deceit had left was waning, his hum petering off at the end into a small whine. He finally let his eyes close, going limp against Remus’s warmth. Remus slides his hand away, closing his fist around the key. It breaks off too easily, but maybe that’s just Remus’s wrath manifesting itself. Funny that he hasn’t absolutely trashed something yet. 

The collar comes off first, and Remus rips his sash off, tying it around the wounds to stop any further bleeding. He hates the way Deceit’s breath stutters, he hates that this is the scenario that he has to hear it for the first time. 

He expects Logan to be the first to come into the room after him, but it’s Roman. Pale and shaky, the Prince marches with just as much determination as he had, dropping to his knees with a heavy thud. He holds his hand out and Remus only hesitates for a second before dropping the key into it. 

The shackles on Deceit’s twisted arms are a lot harder to remove, but they manage. Each limb is, at the very least, fractured, and they spend time massaging blood back into the discolored appendages before the extra limbs fade. Roman removes his sash to wrap around Deceit’s torso, pulling it tight around the cut across his stomach. Any deeper and it would have disemboweled him. For once Remus doesn’t find that funny. His legs are in the best shape, numb and sore but not damaged. Small miracles. 

Roman tries to pick Deceit up, but Remus doesn’t let him get further than one arm under the snake’s knees before he’s intervening. He drags Deceit to him, tucking the lying side close against his chest, hunched over his body protectively. Roman backs off, and Remus lifts his friend effortlessly. Deceit turns towards his chest, huddling in closer for warmth, and Remus wants to rip his own ribs open so that Deceit can curl up in his chest cavity by his beating heart. It would be plenty warm in there, especially with the rage boiling in Remus’s veins. 

The others aren’t even close to recovery when Remus walks out, but he doesn’t care. They don’t matter, nothing matters except the side in his arms, pale and starting to tremble, with green wrapped around his throat and red around his waist. He ignores the others, marching on with purpose. He has a room to set on fire after all, and a friend to take care of.


	4. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: cursing, extreme violence (Deceit gets the shit beat out of him), mentioned gore courtesy of Remus, sympathetic Remus
> 
> I didn't like explosions, so I did bait instead.   
Then I began writing and pretty much left that premise behind.

They’re waiting for him. 

Of course they’re waiting for him.

Fuck.

Deceit ducks the first swing. It clips his hat and sends it flying off to the side, but Deceit slides to the left, out of the bat's range. He turns to his opponent, barely gets a look at them, and then hears the swish of something heavy being pulled through the air behind him. 

The second swing hits. 

The crowbar cracks against the back of his head and Deceit is sent tumbling forward. He lands hard on his knees and hands, two more curling over the back of his neck to cover the new wound. It’s bleeding sticky wetness through his gloves. 

That’s...that’s really not good. 

A foot strikes him in the stomach, then again in the ribs for good measure. Deceit holds his position until a different foot smashes down on his fingers. Finally he falls to his elbows, but apparently that isn’t low enough. The bat crashes down on his spine and Deceit is laid out flat on the ground, groaning in pain. 

“Had enough, snake?” 

What a stupid question. 

Deceit wants to say yes, but of course, life isn’t simple enough to allow him to say that. No, his opponent is relying on the fact that he will not speak the truth. Deception Sanders will say ‘no’ because he means ‘yes’, and that will be enough of an excuse to continue raining blows down on him. 

So it really doesn’t matter if he answers or not, the results will be the same, and therefore Deceit keeps his damn mouth shut for once. 

“Fuck you, slimy bastard.”

A foot kicks him in the ribs again. They are, at the very least, bruised, but knowing his luck likely fractured. His fingers are definitely broken, completely mangled at this point, and several vertebrae warn him not to move or they’ll start throbbing in retaliation. 

The crowbar is dragged menacingly in front of his face, and Deceit resists the urge to roll his eyes. They think they’re so tough, so intimidating. Maybe they will be stupid enough to think that next time they can take Deceit without their little bait trick. Deceit hopes so- he can’t wait to pummel them into the ground, teach them their place. The fact that they have to get a jump on him in the first place proves that they know they’re not strong enough for a fair confrontation. 

This is little comfort when the bat pushes between his shoulder blades, pinning him harshly to the floor. His ribs burn in protest. It hurts to breathe. 

“Answer me, snake!” 

“It’s so nice to see you two again. I was totally wondering where you’d gone.” 

The crowbar disappears from Deceit’s line of sight and he braces himself. It comes down on his leg, to the back of his knee.   
Fuck that smarts. 

“Stop speaking backwards, ya fuck.” 

“Eloquent as always, I see.” 

The S is drawn out into a long pained hiss. The voices chuckle and Deceit thinks of decapitation, crucifixion, tentacles ripping limbs apart, bones sticking through skin. It’s a cheap trick but, well, so is setting up bait. 

God damn them- how did they get their hands on Virgil’s jacket anyway? 

Warm blood flows over the back of his neck, around his shoulders, and soaks into the fabric of his capelet and shirt. Normally it would be a bitch to get out, but Deceit has already decided this outfit is going to burn. He can conjure another one anyway, no point in going through all that hassle. 

What is taking him so long? 

The bat presses down even harder, someone’s full weight leaning against the base, and Deceit barely swallows a groan of agony. Fractured- his ribs are definitely fractured. He threads the fingers of his extra hands together tightly over the back of his head, curls the only functioning hand left into a fist, and hides the last damaged hand close to his chest. There is still one more set left, if he needs it, but that shouldn’t be necessary. 

The smell of garbage is distant, but getting closer. 

Deceit’s shoulders jump with the sharp clang of the crowbar being abandoned. A hand grabs a fist full of his hair to drag his head off of the floor. The strain on his back is brutal, but he merely bares his teeth and glares with all the hatred he can muster. He sees the pulled back fist, the twisted smile on the other side’s face, and then Deceit sees stars. 

The first impact is into his left eye and snaps his head back. The next hits him square in the nose, which begins to gush blood over his lips and chin. Deceit’s head is falling back forward when the third punch glances off of his cheek, over the arch of bone, and into his ear. 

Eventually Deceit can’t even see the fist coming back in for another strike. His vision blurs into vague colors and shapes and his right eye swells completely shut. The taste and smell of blood is so strong it makes him want to gag. The ringing and pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears is so loud it drowns out the taunting and screams of the others. 

Screams?

Deceit’s forehead smacks into the floor but he barely feels it. Everything is fuzzy, from his body to his thoughts. The dull throb of pain sits somewhere in the background, but it’s too far away to grasp at the moment. He thinks he hears pained screams, the sound of flesh being ripped from bone, begging and pleading and hysterically insane laughter. 

Time passes. Deceit drifts. Hands roll him over onto his back and he groans softly. The shape hovering over him is red and green, like Christmas. They might be speaking, but Deceit hears nothing but the low buzz of static. He is lifted into someone’s arms none too gently and wrapped in a black and purple soft thing. It smells like old coffee and dusty corners. It is familiar, but in a way that makes his heart twist and ache. He thinks he loves it, whatever that means. 

Deceit burrows into the soft thing and allows himself to fade away.


	5. Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Slightly unsympathetic Patton, cursing, sleep deprivation
> 
> Someone let the noodle sleep.

“I have until Thursday to come up with a good excuse.” 

“But Thomas-” 

Deceit rolls his eyes and tunes Patton’s protests out. Despite his best efforts, Thomas has already made up his mind, and not even Patton is going to be able to talk him out of it.

Good. Thomas needs to learn to be a little selfish sometimes. 

However, that only leaves Deceit with three days to come up with a good lie. It has to be convincing and solid, no loose ends that Thomas can get tangled in. Short and sweet and to the point. It sounds easy.

It’s not easy. 

Lies are, at their core, creative. Every lie requires a small amount of creative energy to form. From there it can be layered and sculpted into something more substantial. That is Deceit’s job. He takes the idea, the small spark of creativity, and builds upon it. He is an artist, taking the rough raw material and manipulating it into something beautiful.

But first he has to get the material. 

Enter Roman. 

Deceit has no solid explanation for why he gets along decently with Roman. Part of it is undoubtedly Roman’s naivety and stupidity. The rest might be the inherent relationship between their core functions. Deception needs Creativity and, in some ways, Creativity needs Deception. What is suspension of disbelief but a lie to one's self? 

Although technically also half of creativity, Remus’s inspiration tends to be ...less than helpful at the best of times. Roman is the better option for a lie as mundane as this. 

“I can’t help you.” 

Roman shifts awkwardly in his doorway, trying and failing to avoid Deceit’s shocked gaze. 

“What?” 

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry but-” 

“Lie.”

Roman at least has the decency to look guilty. 

“Patton really isn’t convinced that this is the right way to go about it and he’s pretty upset about the whole thing and-” 

Deceit raises a hand to stop the prince’s rambling. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and then lets his shoulders fall in clear disappointment. 

“Thank you so much for _not _wasting my time Roman. You have been  _ so  _ helpful.” 

Roman opens his mouth to say something else, another excuse probably, or another lie about how he’s really truly sorry. Deceit turns and leaves before he can get even a syllable out. 

Drastic times call for drastic measures. 

Remus it is then. 

Everyone makes mistakes, but Deceit is fairly sure that, three hours later and enough nightmare fuel to last Thomas until he’s fifty, that was one of the stupidest mistakes he’s ever made. 

Still, he has the raw material he needs. It’s the discount version of creativity, picked up from behind a dumpster and littered with stains from substances no one wants to know are, but it’s what he needs. It will have to do.

A further nine hours of solid work and five cups of coffee results in a stack of lies for Thomas to pick from. Deceit can’t say it’s his best work, but considering what he had to start with, it’s pretty damn good. 

Not good enough for Patton though. 

“Don’t you think that would hurt her feelings though?” 

“Yeah, maybe not this one.” 

It goes like this: Thomas reviews one of the lies. He reads it aloud to the other sides. Patton immediately shoots it down for one reason or another. Thomas agrees without waiting for input from any of the others. 

“We can’t involve them in this!” 

“Absolutely.” 

By the time the stack is depleted Deceit wants to scream.

“Is this all you’ve got Deceit?” 

“Those  _ aren’t  _ all that I’ve come up with. I  _ didn’t  _ spend all night on those. ”

“Well, we’ve still got time.” 

“I’m sure you’ll, uh...come up with better ones tomorrow kiddo!” 

Deceit feels absolutely no guilt for hissing at them when he sinks out, the papers clutched to his chest. 

It’s okay. It’s fine. Not his best work. He already knew that. He used Remus’s creativity as a base, for the love of Thomas, of course it wasn’t good! He’ll do better. 

He has to do better. 

Disguises are one of Deceit’s specialties. He needs some work on the other sides, but his impression of Roman is rather spot on, if he does say so himself. At the very least it works, and Roman’s room doesn’t immediately lock him out when he goes in to get the base he needs to begin working. 

There is no excuse for failure this time around. Working with Roman’s creativity is like marble compared to Remus’s soaked cardboard. His foundation for the lies is solid and reliable. He knows what Patton will protest against. This next batch, while smaller, will do it. Thomas should be able to find at least one lie he likes enough to go with. 

Should being the keyword. 

“Are you sure about that one, kiddo? Can’t they double-check that?” 

“Can they?” 

“I made sure they  _ could _ .”

“I-I’m sure you did, but...but isn’t there still the possibility they could find out?” 

“We’ll set it to the side for now.” 

Slowly the pile is divided into two; failures and possibilities. The possibilities are divided again. And again. And again. 

Thomas holds the last lie and twists his lips down. 

“I mean ...it's better than the others but I’m still not sure.” 

“It  _ won’t  _ work.”

“Out of all of Deceit’s contributions, this lie does appear to be the most convincing and structurally sound. I do believe it will be adequate,” Logan tosses his opinion in with a tie adjustment and a blank expression. For a moment Deceit has hope.

“Yeah, but what if it doesn’t work? What if they start asking questions?” 

“Virgil has a point. We don’t want them to think Thomas is a bad person!” And Patton crushes that with Virgil’s help less than a second later. 

Deceit sinks out before anyone can respond to Patton’s comment. They always keep coming back to that. Is Thomas a bad person? Deceit hates that question with a passion.

Of course Thomas isn’t a bad person. He’s never been a bad person. Why can’t they accept that? Why can’t Thomas accept that? Just because he and Remus exist doesn’t mean Thomas is automatically a bad person. 

It doesn’t mean they’re bad sides. 

Roman’s room doesn’t fall for his trick twice. Deceit refuses to go back to Remus for help. He’s run out of creativity and options. 

Deceit is capable of making a lie from nothing, he’d hardly deserve his title if he couldn’t, but it is incredibly difficult. The sheer amount of energy and concentration it takes to form a lie himself, without the aid of creativity, is outrageous and seems hardly worth it for a lie so small. 

It’s the only plan he has left. 

Forty-eight hours of no sleep. A handful of lies sloppily marked down, manifested from nothing but Deceit’s own waning willpower. They’re terrible. A part of Deceit is mortified at the mere idea of presenting them to Thomas, but that part is muffled under severe sleep deprivation and the soft buzz of too much yet simultaneously too little caffeine. The world is distant, separated by metaphorical glass that muffles the surroundings. 

Deceit isn’t even aware he’s been summoned until Virgil begins snapping his fingers in front of his face. 

“Stop doing that.” 

“So...don’t stop doing that?” 

“You  _ don’t  _ know what I mean.”

“Are you alright kiddo?” Patton looks concerned. It pisses Deceit off. 

“Just  _ peachy _ .”

The lies are held out to Thomas. He takes them hesitantly, like Deceit has just handed him a bomb instead of a stack of metaphysical papers. 

“Deceit I-I can’t read most of these.” 

Deceit wants to rip his hair out. He wants to scream and tear the couch apart. He wants to hurl Patton out the window and smack Thomas upside the head. He wants to- he wants-

“Deceit?” 

“Hello, earth to snakes and ladders?”

“What?!” Both Thomas and Roman jolt back. They swim in and out of focus. 

Thomas clears his throat. “I can’t read these.” 

“That’ssss not my problem.” 

“So it...is?” 

The long low hiss that rises from Deceit’s throat is rather involuntary. Logan inches away from him just a bit more. The space is appreciated. 

“I’ve given you everything I have, Thomassss, take it or leave it.” 

“Uh…” 

Patton tsks and Deceit whips his head towards the father figure. He hesitates, then gathers his strength and puffs his chest out. False confidence is not a good look on him. 

“Hey now, there’s no need to snap at Thomas like that.” Deceit’s eye twitches, but Patton keeps going. “I know that this is a tough situation but-” 

“Oh ssssshut up.” 

The collective gasp is soft but strong in its shock. 

“I am sssso sssssick and tired of hearing your bullssssshit.” 

It feels like a dam has been broken, some obstruction in Deceit’s mind brushed aside. He can’t stop the words from flowing out of his mouth. He can’t stop the extra pair of hands that knocks his hat off to grab at his hair and pull in frustration or the third pair that clenches into tight trembling fists.

“There isss no perfect lie, there isss no guarantee that Thomasss won’t get caught. I have been trying my bessst to come up with sssomething that workssss and you’ve accepted nothing!” 

“Deceit I think you need to-” 

“Firsssst Roman refussses to help sssso I have to ussse Remussss- do you know how hard it isss to conssstruct a lie from garbage? Itsss next to impossssible!” 

“You can’t blame this on me-”

“And then you sssstack on all thessse sssshitty demandssss, which jussst makesss my job even harder. Not involving othersss? Not checkable? Do you even know how liessss work?!” 

“That’s enough De-”

“No!” 

All of Deceit’s arms move at once and his body gives up. His vision blurs and his legs wobble unsteadily under him. Logan’s fast action keeps him from braining himself on the staircase. Their descent to the carpet is less than graceful. 

“Deceit?” Logan sounds worried. That’s...not right. 

“Whoah whoah- what’s wrong with him?” Thomas is panicking. Virgil must be feeling terrible, wherever he is. What is Thomas panicking about?

“I am not quite sure. Deceit? Deceit can you hear me?” 

It’s a struggle to blink his eyes back open. They refuse to go further than half-mast and continue to try and fall closed despite his best efforts. 

What’s happening? Why is Thomas panicking? Where is he? 

The only sound Deceit can manage is a small confused hiss. 

“Deceit, can you tell me where you are?” 

A shake of the head that turns into a lull against his shoulder. A soft warm palm cups his cheek and lifts his head back up. It smells like flour and flowers. 

“....is that a yes or-?” It’s a no Thomas, Deceit thought that was quite obvious. 

“I can’t tell. Deceit, do you remember what day it is?” 

Another shake. The palm keeps his head from falling again. A thumb strokes over his cheek, and it becomes even harder for him to stay awake. 

“I will assume that means no.” At least Logan gets it, whatever it is. He can’t remember. “Lack of awareness of surroundings, difficulty concentrating, uncharacteristic irritability and outbursts, slurring of words, sudden onset of great fatigue, inability to keep the eyes open, unable to communicate verbally - I do believe that Deceit may be sleep-deprived.” 

The silence is heavy. The thumb keeps stroking. Deceit finally lets his eyes close. 


	6. Adrenaline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: naga!Deceit, sympathetic Remus, constriction, asphyxiation 
> 
> I'm sorry for how short this one is. I had a very long weekend and literally wrote it in less than two hours. I'll try to make up for it with the next one.   
This is a pretty poor introduction to my Self Preservation Deceit idea, but....here ya go.

Light bounces off the edge of Remus’s morning star and the thought solidifies itself in Thomas’s mind. 

_ I’m in danger. _

The air is punched from Remus’s chest as he’s tackled around the middle. The back of his head slams into the ground and the momentum carries them over the dead grass a safe distance away from Thomas. Rolling- Remus is still rolling, spinning in the winding tail that wraps itself around him, thick coils of shiny scales climbing inch by inch up his body. Arms pinned by his sides and feet lifted off of the ground, Remus struggles fruitlessly against the powerful muscles that begin to slowly squeeze the life out of him. 

Deceit hisses in his face, pupils nothing but thin slits of black cut in the backdrop of glowing gold. Venom drips from his bared fangs, dropping onto Remus’s chest. It burns through his clothes, and the Duke screams as the acidic liquid begins to eat away at his flesh.

Thomas has no idea what to do. 

Roman pulls his sword.

“Don’t-!” Logan begins, but the Prince is already running, charging into the fray with his weapon held high. 

He gets close, closer than he imagined, before Deceit’s head snaps around. His gaze is piercing, and Roman freezes in his tracks, going from a spring to a dead stop. The end of Deceit’s tail buzzes in warning, vibrating against the ground. Roman dares to take a bold step forward. 

Deceit strikes. 

Two hands grab ahold of Roman’s shoulders. Another two latch onto his wrists. The final set digs into his ribs. The sword trembles, held in a feeble gasp, and Deceit squeezes until the weapon falls to the ground. Roman is lifted and then hurled effortlessly back at the other sides, flying far over their heads. He disappears into the foliage of the imagination, crashing through branches and brambles. Virgil vaults over the dead brush after him.

Remus chokes, struggling for air. Deceit’s gaze returns to his prey and he watches, impassive, as Remus begins to slow down. The heaving of his chest begins to drop, the struggling weakens, and the Duke’s eyes start to fall closed as darkness overtakes his vision. 

“Deceit!” 

A shiver runs up Thomas’s back when Deceit locks eyes with him. He stiffens in fear as all of Deceit’s attention focuses squarely on him. The naga moves closer, slithering across the dirt, until he looms over Thomas. 

“Let him go.” 

Deceit finally blinks. The snake cocks his head to the side, expression scrunching from neutral to confused. It is a welcome change from the enraged feral look that crossed his face right before he plowed into Remus. 

“Let him go Deceit.” 

Thomas’s voice shakes. His command doesn’t come out as confident as he had hoped, but it works. Deceit blinks again, pupils beginning to widen, and his coils slide off of Remus. The Duke drops, coughing and gasping, to the ground. He immediately starts to crawl away from Deceit, kicking and sliding over the ground as far as he can get while still sucking down oxygen as fast as he can. 

Deceit’s tail pulls in, curling up under him as he shrinks down, pulling into himself. He wraps himself in his arms and blinks, body starting to tremble. Distantly Thomas is aware of Roman and Virgil coming back, breaking through the foliage and then running towards Remus. He is aware of Logan and Patton behind him, telling him to slowly step away from Deceit. He doesn’t listen to them. 

Thomas watches the gold disappear from Deceit’s eyes, and his pupils widen back to normal. The snake blinks, once, twice, three times before shutting them tightly for a moment. When he opens them again, they are normal. 

“Thomasss?” 

Despite his best efforts, Thomas can’t help the small flinch. Deceit mimics him, the end of his tail curling up into a stressed ball. The action draws Deceit’s attention to his body, and his eyes widen in horror. His mouth drops open, and Thomas can just barely see the edges of his fangs before they recede completely. 

“What-what happened?” 


	7. Mutilation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic descriptions of mutilation, graphic descriptions of gore, so much blood Jesus christ
> 
> Human Shield has been replaced with Mutilation.  
I think this is the worst thing I've ever done to Deceit.  
Continued in chapters 8 and 9.

Fixing something this extensive isn’t easy. 

It has to be done. 

Moving hurts. Every small twitch of his muscles sets fire running through his veins. The ache drills into his bones, into the very marrow that throbs with pain. Crossing the room is like trying to trudge through molasses that can’t be seen. Pressure on his knees is agony, but Deceit pushes forward, one concentrated step at a time. Around the pile of dirty clothes he’d been meaning to get to, across the carpet, past the messy nest he called a bed, and finally into the cool bathroom. For once the chill was appreciated. 

The left side of his face is nothing but a weeping mess of fresh exposed flesh. They had started patiently enough, pressing the sharp blade of the scalpel to the edges of his scales and tracing a cut around the area they wanted to remove. After that they had dug underneath the skin with the tip of the blade, severing the skin from the muscle in delicate quick flicks of the wrist. It was near the end, excitement building, that their work had gotten sloppy. Chunks are missing from his cheek and down by his jaw, the final bit of scaled flesh simply ripped off. 

Of course, at that point, Deceit had been in too much shock to scream.

And they had sewn his lips shut. 

Not before cutting out his tongue first, of course.

Deceit blinks slowly back at himself in the mirror. His reflection blurry, a smear of brown and pink and red. Just moving his eyes causes searing pain, but if they hurt it meant they were still there. For a second it seemed like they were going to take that from him too. The left one, at least. 

The scales down his back had been far more appealing. 

“I can make a belt out of it!” they had said, holding up the flap of weeping flesh for all to see.

Deceit shudders at the memory. 

Every inch of his body is slick with blood. Deceit’s fingers tremble violently. It takes several tries before he can properly hold the scissors without them slipping from his weak grasp. They shake, stabbing him several times in the puffy lips that have long since gone numb. 

The snip is oddly satisfying.

Despite everything, Deceit can’t help but judge the sewing. Messy, sloppy, no rhyme or reason behind the crisscrossing pattern- Patton can do better stitches with his eyes closed. Considering how drugged they had him there were no excuses for such shoddy work. Sure, flesh was harder to pierce than fabric, but still. Abysmal. Deceit hopes they mess up their belt. 

Rough and thick, the slide of the pieces through the holes is agonizing. Thread, they had decided, wasn’t strong enough to keep him quiet. No, a liar such as he needed something tougher, something that would last. Twine, frayed and moldy, was a much better choice, in their opinion. The red clogged pieces plop into the sink with wet smacks, sliding down to pool over the drain. 

Deceit imagines maggots, wriggling in his own blood.

No no, he can’t let his thoughts wander there. Remus would- well, Remus would do what Remus does best. 

He’d make it worse. 

The water that spurts from the showerhead is hot and steaming. Normally Deceit would relish a warm shower, let it wake him up and get him ready for a long day, but now it burns. Lukewarm, verging on cool, has to do. He sits down in the tub, letting the stream pound against his aching shoulders. He can feel the blood sliding down his back, over his ribs, across his hip and left leg. The blood swirls down the drain like a watercolor painting. It doesn’t stop. 

There’s nothing to be done about his tongue, unfortunately. Deceit hates the fact he’s actually glad they had cauterized it during the cutting. So he wouldn’t choke and drown on his own blood, they had said. So they could enjoy watching him writhe in pain, conscious the entire time they ruined him. Took from him.

A sizable chunk of skin is missing from the back of his left hand. Deceit cradles it close to his chest. Most of his pec is skinned from sternum to ribs. The raw flesh burns, every droplet that lands on the empty portions of his back sting and snap at his nerves. 

Fresh tears collect in his eyes. Deceit sniffles, tries to hold back the sobs, and ultimately fails. He breaks down under the spray, curled as tight as his ruined body will let him. 

Getting out of the tub isn’t as easy as getting in. The blood loss is finally starting to set in. It should have killed him by now, it definitely would have if it had been Thomas, but Deceit isn’t Thomas. A part of him, a metaphysical manifestation of Thomas’ self-preservation and lies. Deceit isn’t really real. 

That doesn’t make the pain any less real. 

Wobbling, Deceit grabs hold of the sink counter to keep himself from sliding on the puddles of blood across the tile. The other four arms not present ache distantly in the back of his head. He had done his best to hide them, to save the last of his precious scales, but-

Well, they could make a nice set of gloves to match that stupid belt. 

Deceit summons a first aid kit onto the counter big enough to fit half of an ambulance in. His actions are uncoordinated and shaky, but he pulls the rolls of gauze out and the surgical tape. Deceit spares himself one more glance in the mirror. 

He looks awful. 

He gets to work.

The end results aren’t...terrible, if Deceit is being honest with himself, which he rarely is. He looks like a discount mummy dragged out the back of a closing Halloween store, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is the fact that all of the bandages are functional and staying in place. The gauze is already starting to turn pink around the edges, but with the wave of his hand everything is covered by a new set of clothes. A flick of the wrist and Deceit settles his hat back on. He shoots himself a sly smile in the mirror, doing his best not to cringe at the way it pulls on the invisible holes over his sore lips. 

Perfect. Not a scale out of place. A little stiff but the others aren’t diligent enough to notice. 

It will work.


	8. Secret Injury + Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic descriptions of infection, mention of mutilation from the previous chapter, puss, blood, sickness, fever, throwing up, slightly unsympathetic Virgil (but only for like a hot sec), sympathetic Remus
> 
> This is a continuation of chapter 7 and will be finished in chapter 9.

Remus doesn’t suspect a thing. He reads the pad of paper Deceit holds up to him, looks at Deceit, looks at the paper, looks back at Deceit, and then rips his message off and stuffs it in his mouth. A long moment of thoughtful chewing to savor the flavor, a loud struggled swallow, and then Remus is wandering off.

Not what Deceit had expected exactly, but really, attempting to expect anything logical from Remus is a waste. 

Logan is equally as easily convinced, although with less paper eating. 

“Would you like me to make you a cup of tea for your throat?” 

The offer is...shockingly genuine, enough so that it throws Deceit off. Logan certainly isn’t the most hostile towards him, but they had never actually gotten along. Not all of Deceit’s ideas are, well, logical, and although they share a similar appreciation of philosophy, they’ve never actually discussed it. 

He hesitates, blinking owlishly back at the bespeckled side. Opening his mouth alone would be hell, but putting something hot in his mouth over his severed tongue? The idea makes him want to gag. 

_ Yes  _ he writes on his pad, and then  _ no thank you _ . Logan doesn’t take long to decipher his backward words.

“Of course. Please let me know if there is any way I can be of assistance. If you will excuse me, I must review Thomas’ calendar for tomorrow.” 

Logan leaves with a mug of coffee in each hand, a sure indicator he plans to pull another all-nighter, and Deceit isn’t quite sure how to feel about the actually pleasant encounter they’ve had. 

Maybe he should keep his damn mouth shut more often. 

….no, that would be boring. It is already proving to be boring. And irritating. 

“Are you sure you don’t want some kiddo? It wouldn’t be any trouble at all!” 

“He’s underlining the  _ Yes _ , Padre, I think he’s good.” 

Patton is insufferable and suffocating. He’s never cared before, actually, Deceit was pretty sure Patton outright hated him, and the sudden change from hostile polar opposite to doting fatherly figure is giving him emotional whiplash. It is not something he is prepared for. 

Patton takes more convincing that Logan merely because Deceit turns down every remedy he tries to present. Cough drops, more tea, saltwater, painkillers- the list keeps going. Why can’t he just take a page out of Logan’s book? Deceit can only aggressively underline  _ Yes _ so many times before the pen starts to break through the paper. If he’s not careful he’s going to ruin his notepad. 

At least Roman’s naive acceptance is a constant that Deceit can rely on. He asks too many questions, curiosity encompassing a part of creativity and all, but accepts every answer Deceit writes. Even the more ridiculous ones. 

“I don’t think Remus stole his voice, Ro.” 

“But that is totally something he would do; he has the octopus aesthetic and everything!” 

It’s almost...fun, even when Roman tries to be his knight in no armor and vows to go steal his voice back from his devious brother. Every involuntary smile hurts, it pulls at his lips and reopens the barley healing holes, but in a way he finds he doesn’t mind so much. Patton’s laugh and Roman’s dramatic declarations of chivalry lessen the pain somehow. They make it better.

They don’t suspect a thing. 

Except...

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Deceit, but I’m not buying it.” 

Well, that was rather predictable. Four out of five wasn’t bad though. 

Virgil pins him in the hallway, crowding him into a corner in a bold move of confidence. Deceit raises an eyebrow and pretends to be nonchalant. In reality, his back is pressed against the wall and every nerve is on fire. There might be blood sliding down into the back of his pants.

“Answer me.” 

Deceit reaches into his pocket for his pad. Virgil snatches it from him the moment he has it out. The paper and pen disappear into the pouch of his hoodie. Deceit gives Virgil the best offended look he can without aggravating his wounds too much. 

“I know you can talk. Answer me.” 

Virgil is stubborn, something Deceit really didn’t miss when he turned over to the Light Sides. However, experience dictates that Virgil isn’t going to give up unless one of three things happens. 

First, Deceit speaks, which isn’t a viable option since he doesn’t have a tongue to speak with. 

Second, Deceit runs to his room and locks himself in. Moving fast is also not an option. Plus if he tried to get away now, he’d literally have to run Virgil over. Not ideal. 

Thirdly, Deceit shows Virgil the truth. 

Biting an actual bullet sounds easier than showing Virgil his wounds, but Deceit takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, pulls as much inner strength forward as he can, and then waves his hand over his lips. 

Virgil gags and stumbles back. He turns away, shaking, and then looks back. The anxious side gags, slaps a hand over his own mouth, and then turns away again. He doesn’t try to look back at Deceit. 

“Oh my god,” Virgil mutters into his hands, fingertips tracing over his own lips in an odd show of sympathy. He shudders, squirming in his jacket. 

Another wave and the glamor is back up. Deceit holds his hand out for his pad and pen. Virgil shakes his head, but doesn’t turn it, “You have to go to Lo.” 

A tap of the foot lets Virgil know his patience is wearing thin. Virgil hesitantly takes the pad out and hands it back with a quick peek. When he sees the Deceit’s mouth is disguised again he turns back towards him. This trembling doesn’t ebade. 

“You should really go to Logan.” 

_ It will heal.  _

“How- how long have you-?” 

_ Four days.  _

_ You can’t tell anyone. _

“I don’t think I’ll have to.”

Deceit raises an eyebrow, but Virgil declines to elaborate. He breathes deeply, collects himself, and then shoves his hands into his pockets and slinks off. 

This is far from the first time Virgil has been cryptic, and it surely won’t be the last, so Deceit shrugs his words off and flees to his room.

Virgil is right, which is quite surprising because he is usually very very wrong about things.

Two days later and Deceit wakes up with a fever. He feels groggy and lethargic, whole body aching in a sickeningly familiar way. Dragging himself out of bed is a pain, every movement tugs at sore muscles that weigh him down like lead. Getting to the bathroom is a minute long endeavor. 

The source of the fever reveals itself very quickly. Deceit bumps his hip against the countertop and the pain is so intense he screams. His left leg gives out and Deceit flails, trying to catch himself, but the slightest twitch of his fingers brings a new rolling wave of agony. The entire left side of his body is on fire, literally radiating a sweltering amount of heat. Thankfully he falls onto his right side, which saves him from causing even more damage, but the pain is paralyzing. 

Deceit isn’t quite sure how long he spends on the rapidly warming tile of his bathroom floor, but it must be a while. He swims in and out of consciousness, stinging tearful eyes struggling to stay open. The fever burns long and hot, yet Deceit trembles and shivers violently. 

Nausea, stabbing and sudden, gets him moving again. He drags himself over to the toilet to throw up. What little remains of his tongue doesn’t appreciate the acid that scorches his throat. His lips don’t do much better and by the time Deceit flushes the toilet and lays his head on the rim of the bowl there is blood pouring down his chin. 

Rolling off the bandages is almost just as agonizing as touching the wounds. They pull and peel at the healing skin, taking layers of dead flesh off with them. The sickly sour scent of infection floods the bathroom and Deceit throws up again. Very little is left in his stomach, but it tries anyway. 

Yellow discolored pus lines the outer edges of the inflamed red wounds. The raw flesh in the middle of the skinned areas ooze blood. Just looking at it makes him light-headed. Nausea tries to rise up again, but his body is just too exhausted. Deceit slides back down onto the floor, trying to find patches of tile that are still cool. 

Time passes. 

Voices, muffled and distant, begin to get louder. They sound frantic, worried, scared. Pounding not in his skull starts to filter through the cotton stuffed into his ears. Deceit rolls his head to the side, and the blessed cool tile chills his heated face. 

The door to his room splinters inwards. Holes begin to appear, scattered haphazardly, and then Remus’s morning star finally comes through the wood. Pieces stick to it as he pulls it back through with a grunt. 

Virgil pushes his way through the others, sprints to the bathroom, and then gags with enough force to throw him into the doorframe. He dives towards Deceit’s desk, and Deceit hopes distantly that Virgil makes it to the trash can. Cleaning that off the carpet would be a pain in the ass. 

Patton isn’t far behind his dark strange son. Tears stream down his face as he sees Deceit sprawled on the floor. Logan freezes, and Roman doesn’t even try to hide the disgust on his face. He gags too, and goes to join Virgil. 

Deceit can’t blame them - he’s a mess. A bleeding, oozing, stinking, pathetic mess. 

Remus begins giggling, and that snaps the others into action. Patton drops to his side and reaches for him, hands trembling and hovering over the mutilated half of his body. It’s clear he has no idea where to touch, where to even begin. To be fair, Deceit wouldn’t know where to begin either. There’s so much going on with just his face alone, not to mention the rest of his body.

Eventually, Patton settles on doing what he does best- comforting. He moves Deceit’s head into his lap and summons a cool damp towel, dabbing carefully around the edges of the bandage. For such an innocent side, Patton has a stomach of steel. He cries but he doesn’t gag, he doesn’t shy away, he doesn’t leave. Deceit can’t help but admire that. 

Logan begins to mumble, bending over the rest of Deceit’s body to analyze his wounds. Gargon only professional doctors understand pours from his mouth. On the surface he looks fine, detached and objective as always, but Deceit specializes on the hidden, on the details. 

His head is foggy and his eyes are falling shut, but he can still hear the pauses in Logan’s words, the short gaps of horror while he processes new disturbing information. Logan blinks more than he would normally, he nervously adjusts his glasses, and there is the slightest tremor to the ends of his fingers. He is unnerved, but he holds it together. He, like Patton, does what he does best. Deceit can appreciate that resolve in the face of something so disgusting. 

Virgil doesn’t come into the bathroom, and neither does Roman. Roman hovers around the door frame, a rollercoaster of emotions flashing across his face. Somewhere over his shoulder a flash of green catches Deceit’s eye, a blur of black, and the giggling fades away. 

Fools. Once Remus finds them they won’t last an hour. Maybe Remus will bring his scales back to him. He wonders if they’ve been fashioned into that belt yet.

“Dee? Kiddo? Can you look at me?” 

Patton’s eyes are bright shiny pale blue, like a pastel sky on a warm summer afternoon. He gives Deceit a watery smile, fresh tears rolling down his plump cheeks. 

“That’s it kiddo, just focus on me. It’s-it’s gonna be alright, I promise. We’ll fix this. We’ll get you all better again Dee Dee.” 

Dee Dee. That’s...new. It’s kind of cute. The nickname makes him feel just a little less guilty for putting those tears on Patton’s face. Deceit tries to give Patton a smile back, but his lips hurt too much.

Later- later he’ll thank Patton for being here. He’ll need to thank them all for being here, for coming to look for him. He hadn’t honestly thought that they would. It is a pleasant surprise.

“I would like to move Deceit to my room for further treatment and observation. The infection is relatively mild at the moment, but without proper care it could escalate rapidly. I-I am not sure how we are going to move him…” 

“Leave that to me.” 

Roman is shockingly gentle. He rolls Deceit onto his back, apologizing profusely for the soft hisses of pain it elicits. The arm under his knees isn’t so bad, uncomfortable but not agonizing. 

It’s his back that they are all more worried about. The entire left side is flayed open, wrapping around to his ribs in the largest patch of missing skin and scales. There is no avoiding it, no matter how hard they try. 

Roman swallows, tenses, and slides his arm around Deceit’s body. Deceit swallows his whimper, for Roman’s sake. 

“Okay, I’m going to lift on three. Ready?” 

Deceit gives a small nod, lulling his head against Roman’s chest. He breathes deep and slow, preparing himself. 

“One...two...three!” 

The howl that rips itself from Deceit’s throat is sharp and agonized. He tries to curl in on himself, but Roman holds him securely against his body.

Rapid apologies bombard him from all sides, mixed with Patton’s loud sniffling and Roman’s heavy heartbeat. The world spins in the pain, growing distant and hazy. Logan snaps in his face, Patton is yelling his name, Roman is even shaking him. 

Deceit hears the crack of thunder before he passes out, the boom of a shaky voice oddly comforting. 


	9. Humiliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: nonsexual nakedness, brief descriptions of healing wounds, mention of infection and fever, mention of previous graphic wounds
> 
> Finally, the end is here.  
That concludes the saga of skinned Deceit, at least here on A03. I want to move onto other concepts for the upcoming prompts.   
If you want to know more about what happens next, because I do have ideas, you are free to come bug me on Tumblr.   
I live for getting messages on Tumblr. 
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient. I can't guarantee the rest of whumptober will be as long, but I will do my best.

Recovery, Deceit finds, is both a painfully slow and quite humiliating process. 

While before he had been able to at least write his thoughts and comments down on his notepad, now it is nearly impossible. He can’t even hold the pad still, let alone get a good enough grasp on the pen to write something coherent. If it doesn’t end up slipping from his fingers the end drags wildly across the page. 

The frustration is intense. 

Oral and written communication down the drain, Deceit does his best to convey his hazy messages through expression and action, which isn’t saying much as both of those are shot too. 

With half a face skinned and suffering from severe muscle trauma while covered in bandages, expression isn’t worth much. Deceit can manage a few things, like his infamous eye roll and the quirk of his still sore but thankfully not infected lips, but generally, it takes a game of twenty questions before the others figure out the simple sign of displeasure or gratefulness that he was trying to convey. Shockingly enough, Roman is the worst at it, topped only slightly by Logan. Patton is arguably the best, but not by much. He loves to jump to conclusions, and more than once Deceit has made himself dizzy shaking his head at all of Patton’s rapid-fire guesses.

Virgil doesn’t look at him during his rare midnight visits, and Deceit hasn’t seen Remus since he ran off on his quest for vengeance.

Action is ill-advised with the sheer amount of pain. Infection saps the little energy Deceit had managed to gain, and even the simple act of flipping Roman the bird becomes a herculean trial of spite. When he isn’t in pain he’s high on pain medication. Deceit isn’t sure where Logan gets the syrup, if he’s making it himself or just conjuring it up, but it’s strong. Incredibly strong. Large gaps in his memory start to become a common occurrence. Deceit hates it.

Deceit hates a lot of things. 

Most of all, Deceit hates the process of the bandage changes. 

Two times a day Logan and Patton come in to change his bandages, and Deceit loathes every single second of it. He shakes and shivers and squirms under the touches that manhandle him up into a sitting position because he can’t do it himself. 

There is a lot he can’t do himself that not long ago would be laughably easy. 

He expects them to laugh.

They don’t. 

Patton climbs into bed next to Deceit and tucks Deceit into his side, running his fingers through Deceit’s hair. It is comforting, although he’ll never admit it. Patton has probably already figured that just from the way he leans into the moral side’s touch. 

Besides acting as a source of warmth and ease, Patton is also Logan’s assistant. He passes Logan the supplies he needs and disposes of the soiled bandages over the side of the bed. All the while he keeps Deceit close, muttering softly to him no matter what state he is in. The constant stream of talk helps distract from, well, everything else. 

Despite being the smartest side Thomas has, Logan isn’t a doctor, let alone a surgeon. There is very little he can do for Deceit with his limited knowledge of medical practices. Basics are what they have to work with until Logan can convince Thomas to pick up a more advanced medical textbook, which he is certainly pushing Thomas to do. 

And there lies Deceit’s greatest fear- Thomas. 

Thomas can not, under any circumstances, find out. Deceit would much rather fade away for good than let his host see him in such a deplorable state. 

It helps that Thomas has never willingly summoned him. He’s always chosen when to pop up, if Thomas and the others want him there or not. Deceit prefers to work behind the scenes, in the thankless shadows where he belongs. 

So far there had been no indicated that Thomas needed him for anything, and although Deceit’s job has been put on hiatus, his host had been getting by just fine on his own. For once Patton’s insistence that Thomas be a more honest person was actually proving useful. As long as Thomas didn’t start trying to weave himself a web of lies that Deceit needed to keep track of, he would get the time he needed to recover. 

And what a long time that was turning out to be. 

Before getting into the tedious process of checking his bandages, Logan checks his lips and tongue. 

The holes in his lips had completely closed up at this point, only marked by the small dotting of scabs around his mouth. No infection had cropped up, and Logan had declined to do any wrapping. Of all his wounds, those had healed just fine on their own with very little intervention other than regular cleaning. 

In a feat of absolute absurdity, Deceit’s tongue was growing back, albeit very very slowly. 

“I think you broke him,” Roman had muttered, right before Logan’s eye started twitching and he’d made an unexpected high pitched keening noise. Deceit had almost expected smoke to start coming out of Logan’s ears as his brain went into full meltdown mode. 

It was the first time Deceit had laughed since the entire thing had begun. He’d laughed so hard he’d cried, and then he’d cried for real at hearing the sound of his own voice. 

No one talks about it, and Deceit holds the beginning of that memory close to his heart.

Logan moves onto the bandages. Patton always brings a mirror along so Deceit can see the progress. Sometimes he accepts the offer, and sometimes he doesn’t. It really depends on how coherent and bitter he is at the time of the bandage changes. 

Today, he dares to look. 

A glossy pink crescent from temple to cheek still stands out, but Deceit finds the corner of his lips twitching up. His jaw is more or less completely healed over, a little puckered but nothing a small illusion can’t fix. 

Comparatively, it’s looking fantastic.

To top it all off, small dark spots are even beginning to show up under the healed skin, slightly bumpy and hard to the touch. 

Deceit had cried the first time he’d seen them. 

They don’t talk about that either. 

Logan’s fingers are chilly, but Deceit lets the logical side move his head around, scrutinizing his face. He applies more of the antibiotic ointment, just to be on the safe side, and then sets about rewrapping Deceit's face. 

The easiest part is over. 

Everything goes downhill from there. 

Logan’s hands press on his shoulders and Patton leans forward. Together they push Deceit up, off of the warm pillows he had been resting on and against Patton’s body. Patton holds him up and Deceit clings to him, right arm wrapped tightly around Patton’s shoulders. 

Cool air prickles his bare flesh and Deceit squirms, the right side of his body shivering. 

“Sorry kiddo,” Patton mutters into his temple, rubbing his cheek against Deceit’s hair. It does little to help. 

Logan’s hands feel like ice when they skim over his back, quickly and efficiently untucking his bandages to pull them off of his torso, revealing the worst of Deceit’s wounds. 

It is only the worst due to the size. The scales had once continuously spread from his pec down to his stomach and even dipping over the curve of his hip before wrapping around his ribs and circling behind his back. Still tender and inflamed from the receding infection, even the removal of the bandages stings. 

And now comes the part that always makes Deceit want to curl into a little ball and hide under the blankets. 

Patton gets a damp sponge from over the side of the bed and Logan sits on his left. 

“I’ll be quick, promise,” Patton says, as he always does, before handing Deceit off to Logan. 

Patton begins peeling the covers down and Deceit hides his flushed face against Logan’s shoulder. This is the part he dreads, this is the part that always makes him so uncomfortable. 

Goosebumps rise over his naked skin and Deceit does everything in his power not to squirm or tremble. 

The damp sponge is blessedly warm and Patton is soft with his strokes, slow and dedicated in his work. He scrubs across Deceit’s stomach first, dipping the sponge back over the side of the bed to fill it with more water before continuing. 

It is a great improvement from the first time Patton had tried cleaning him up, but no less humiliating in its exposure. 

At least now Deceit’s fever is nearly gone and he isn’t hallucinating. The distorted memory of Patton shifting into one of the others, a scalpel held up in promise to take the rest of his skin, still haunts Deceit’s troubled sleep.

Patton had had a black eye for a while after that. 

The sponge slides down, over his hip and across the top of his thigh. Every part of Deceit wants to turn and draw his legs up and snatch the covers back. His abs curl, body going tense, eyes squeezed shut. Certain muscles and patches of skin shudder, instinctively drawing back, like a wounded animal scared of touch.

Deceit is vulnerable, laid out on his back with his belly exposed and his body trapped. Logan holds him and Patton washes him and every part of Deceit’s brain is screaming at him to thrash, to kick, to roll off the side of the bed and slide under it where he is safe. Dark and confined, somewhere he can hide away, protected and safe. 

One leg is cleaned and then the other, Patton carefully avoiding the bandages that still need to be changed. He travels back up Deceit’s other thigh and to his stomach again, skirting the area around the open wounds. The sponge is dragged along his chest, up to his shoulders, and then down his arms. 

Logan pushes him forward a bit so that Patton can squeeze the sponge around to his back. He works with professionalism and speed, humming a soft tune as he gets closer to being done. 

Good. Deceit’s patience is fading quickly. 

“Alright, all done kiddo!” 

The sponge disappears over the side of the bed and Logan carefully transfers Deceit back over to Patton. 

With the hardest part over, Deceit feels his energy dropping drastically. Patton has to support most of his weight while Logan applies more ointment and begins to rewrap the bandage around his torso. Once he’s all wrapped again they lay him back down on the bed and pull the covers up. Only then does Deceit let himself relax. 

From there Logan has an easy time redressing his leg and his arm. Deceit drifts, tired and sore from the entire ordeal. Patton gets him to sip some water and Logan has him take another dose of medication before they start packing up. 

Patton doesn’t immediately leave like Logan does, despite it being Logan’s room Deceit is staying in. He lays on top of the covers and holds Deceit close while he drifts off, gently scratching at his scalp. This time the touch is appreciated. 

“We’re gonna keep you safe, I promise,” Patton tells him, the barest whisper into his unkempt hair. “They’ll never touch you again. It’s gonna get better. It always gets better.” 

Oddly enough, it keeps the nightmares at bay.


	10. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: unsympathetic Morality (but NOT Patton), abandonment 
> 
> The subconscious is like one from the first chapter of this series, but this chapter isn't related to that one.  
It is related to chapter 2, and is the return of the Dad!Deceit Au. This is Remus's first meeting with Deceit, and how he ended up with his scaley father. 
> 
> Sorry about the lack of a post yesterday. I had started a chapter but really didn't like where it was going, so set it aside.   
Question for everyone reading: would you rather get two short chapters and have me catch up, or accept a few day-long breaks and recieve longer chapters?

“R-Ro?”

The echo drifted, multiple iterations fading away into the distance. 

“Roman?” 

Only his own voice bounced back at him, weak and fleeting. 

“I don’t like this game, Ro.” 

Remus had no idea how much time had passed. There was no sun here, no clocks, no way of telling time. He didn’t even cast a shadow to guess the passage by. The landscape was a bleak empty endless grey. No horizon, no walls, no nothing. 

It was chilly, and Remus hugged himself tightly as he kept moving. Walking endlessly forward, or so it seemed forward. Who knew which direction he was going. Remus certainly didn’t. This place didn’t seem to have direction. 

It would have made the perfect blank canvas, in any other situation. Roman would have been delighted to find this place. Anything was possible in this expanse of nothing. They could build kingdoms, oceans and forests just as deep and mysterious, space stations and planets of their own. It would be the ultimate playground, like another Imagination. They could expand in this place, grow from the ground up. It could be an experimental area, a place to try things out before putting it in the Imagination for Thomas to play with. 

But Roman wasn’t here. 

Morality said that- he’d said- 

“Where are we going?” Remus asked, swinging Morality’s arm. Morality had tightened his grip on Remus’s hand, a warning to stop messing around. Morality was never any fun. Remus switched to skipping instead, just to give him something to do as they walked. The deep groan Morality made was expected and silly. Remus liked making Morality groan like that. 

“I said you’ll see when we get there, Remus,” Morality snapped back, staring straight ahead, stiff and boring as any adult. Remus rolled his eyes and kept skipping. 

The door that appeared at the end of the hall was plain. It had a single iron knob, pristine and shiny. Remus starting jumping, pulling at Morality’s hand.

“Is this it? Are we here? Are we here?” 

“Yes, Remus, we’re here. Stop it.” 

Morality opened the door to the wide expanse. He let go of Remus’s hand, putting it instead on his shoulder and giving him a small shove across the divide. Remus moved willingly, letting his curiosity guide him. He took cautious steps a few feet away from Morality and the door, looking around. He peeked around the back of the door, and around the front again. 

“There’s nothing here,” he’d pouted, scowling back at Morality. “This is boring.” 

“What did you expect?” 

“I don’t know, something? A surprise?” 

Morality rolled his eyes and leaned against the door frame, blocking the way back. Remus swung on his heels, rolling his head. No matter where he looked, there was no surprise. Nothing happened. 

“Can we go back home now? I’m tired.” 

The entire situation hadn’t made sense to Remus, not from the beginning. Morality had woken him up in the middle of the night, pulling him from his top bunk. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and tried to reach for Roman at the bottom steps. Remus always got him up for adventures. Roman didn’t like being left out of adventures.

Morality had slapped his hand away, putting a finger against his lips with a glare. He had taken Remus’s wrist and dragged him out, oh so careful to shut the door slowly so he didn’t wake Roman. Morality never wanted to spend time with him instead of Roman. Morality never went on his adventures, only Roman’s. 

It was odd. It didn’t feel right. 

But it was Morality, so Remus had gone with him, wrist aching under the harsh grip. 

“No, Remus. You need to stay here.” 

“Why?” 

Morality gave him a pitying look, and Remus had felt his stomach sink. He had rushed to Morality, latching onto his leg and looking around his body down the hallway. It was bright and warm, leading back to their living room. 

Remus wanted Roman. He wanted to go back to his room and crawl into Roman’s bed with him. 

He wanted to go home.

“I don’t want to stay here.” 

“You have to.” 

“No!” 

“Remus!” Morality squatted down and grabbed Remus’s wrists, wrestling him away. Remus tugged and squirmed, chest heaving with newly forming panic. His wrists hurt, and he imagined they would be bruised again. “You do not say no to me.” 

“I don’t want to stay! I want to go home!” 

“You’re staying here, Remus.” 

“Why?!” Remus was crying, pulling at Morality’s grip, not sure if he wanted to get closer or farther from the other side. Morality kept him at arms length, dull blue eyes hardening into a steely grey. 

“Because you’ve been bad, Remus. You’re bad for Thomas. Roman is the good creativity, and you’re the bad creativity. Roman needs to be Creativity on his own. He doesn’t need you. You scare him, Remus. He doesn’t  _ want  _ you.”

Remus goes stiff, silent tears pouring down his cheeks. He sniffled and choked on his sobs, staring into Morality’s unfeeling and uncaring eyes. Morality lets go of his wrists and he just stands there, trying to process the words. 

He’s...bad? Roman is scared of him? Roman doesn’t want him? 

“You’re bad for Thomas and Roman, Remus. You need to stay here, where you can’t scare them or hurt them.” 

“I-I-I don’t-” 

“You do not talk back to me, Remus,” Morality stands up and Remus backs away, scared. He shudders and hugs himself, snot rolling down his face and tears streaking his cheeks. “You’re staying here, and that’s it.” 

The door closes behind Morality and then shrinks, disappearing into itself. Remus runs to where it used to be, but simply keeps going. He turns around, trying to pinpoint where the door had been, but the lack of details made it impossible. 

So Remus had started walking. 

He’s still walking.

The tears are frosted on his cheeks by now, his nose is cold, his body still trembles. 

Morality said he was bad. Morality said he scared Roman. Morality said Roman didn’t want him anymore. Roman didn’t want him as a brother, as the other half of creativity. 

Morality wouldn’t lie to him. He hates lying! He’d told them all that Deceit was bad, he was one of the Others, one of the Sides that hurt Thomas, that Thomas didn’t need. 

Did...did that mean he was one of the Others? Did he belong with Deceit? 

Morality wouldn’t lie. He was Morality! He steered Thomas in the right direction, he always had the answers to everything, he knew what was right and what was wrong. He told Logic to be better, he told Roman to be happier, he told Remus to- 

To stop. 

Stop talking, stop bothering me, don’t touch that, don’t go in there, don’t do this, don’t do that- no to everything. 

No Remus. That painting is bad, Remus. You can’t be in the play, Remus. Thomas doesn’t need you right now, Remus. That is disturbing, Remus. 

Why are you so demented, Remus? 

Why can’t you just be like Roman, Remus? 

Roman was scared of him. Roman didn’t want him. He wanted to be Creativity, Thomas’s only Creativity. Thomas only wanted Roman, only needed Roman. 

Remus was an Other, and Roman….Roman was a Light. A Good side, a useful side, like Morality and Logic. It had always been that way. 

Morality had tried to help him, he’d tried to change him, but Remus was an Other. He was Bad. He’d never be like Roman. 

He didn’t want to be like Roman. He wasn’t Roman. He was Remus, and that’s how he wanted to stay.

Roman didn’t want him. Morality had never liked him. Thomas didn’t need him. 

Fine. 

Roman didn’t have to deal with him. Morality didn’t have to like him. 

And Thomas…..well, Thomas would just have to suck it up, because Remus was here, and he was here to stay. 

Warmth blooms inside of Remus’s chest, the start of a fire within his soul. It spreads through his body, anger boiling his veins, hatred seeping into his brain. 

Remus was an Other, and it was about time he started acting like it. 

Three days later, Deceit stumbles upon chaos. 

The subconscious had been turned upside down, ripped apart and reimagined in a horrid twist of Thomas’s worst nightmares. A sky had been created, a solid sheet of blood-red blanketing the world. The trees twisted in contorted naked shapes, sharp and oozing black liquid. The grass crunched like glass under his feet, brown and wilted but snapping so easily after every step. Something hissed in the darkness, and Deceit froze, drawing his capelet closer. 

“Creativity?” 

“It’s actually Remus. Creativity is my brother.” the voice within the darkness said back, twin neon glowing dots fixing Deceit to the spot. “Who are you?” 

“I’m  _ not  _ Deceit. I  _ haven’t  _ been looking for you,” Deceit responds, fixing his hat and trying to make himself appear more confident than he really was. This was not what he had expected. He really wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Remus steps forward, the tangle of thorns and bramble around his legs breaking away, snapping like old bones. He’s bigger than Deceit thought he was going to be, with pinprick green eyes that twitch at the edges and wild curly hair. 

Deceit can see through him. He got here just in time. 

“I  _ haven’t  _ come to take you back with me.” 

“Why do you talk like that?” Remus folds his arms and cocks a hip out, all sass and untrusting malice seeping from his body. The grass gets darker, the sky lightens, and it feels like millions of eyes are focused on Deceit and the doorway behind him. 

“I’m  _ not  _ Deceit. I  _ don’t  _ lie.” 

“Do you always talk like that?” 

Deceit opens his mouth to respond and then stops. He usually does, it’s been so long since he’s talked to someone else, let alone told them the truth. The last one had been Morality and-   
  


Deceit didn’t want to think about that.    
  


The snake clears his throat and tries again, going slow to make sure every word about to leave his mouth isn’t a lie, “No, I don’t.” 

“Okay.” 

Remus looks around, bored and frail. The darkness from the forest nips at his bare heels, shadows curling around his ankles. Branches creak, reaching for their master, the grass blowing in his direction. The world Remus had created breathes, and it watches Deceit with feral instincts. 

Deceit takes a deep breath and lowers himself to one knee. Remus raises an eyebrow. Deceit stretches out a hand, and Remus looks at it like it will bite him or, worse, slap him. 

Deceit doesn’t think too far into that. 

“I’d like you to come back home with me.” 

“Wh-where’s that?” Remus starts shaking, taking a small step back towards the forest. If he crosses the boundary it will swallow him, and Deceit will never be able to find him. Half of Thomas’s Creativity will be lost. He can’t let Remus run away. 

“Away from the….others.” 

Now Remus just looks confused, but he’s not bolting, curiosity getting the best of him. It feels like a small win, a step in the right direction. “I thought you were the Other.” 

Deceit blinks, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Morality said that you were an Other, and that you’re bad and Thomas doesn’t need you.” 

“Oh did he?” Deceit wants to scream. Of course, Morality made him out to be the villain. Of course, Morality was using lies  _ against  _ him, the embodiment of Deception. What a low blow, what a damn cocky maneuver. “What else did Morality say?” 

“He said that I scare Roman, and Roman doesn’t want me around anymore. Roman wants to be Thomas’s only Creativity. Thomas doesn’t need me.” 

For the first time in his existence, Deceit swears his heart breaks. Sorrow floods his soul, drowning him in hurt and anger. He moves before he can think about what his actions will do. 

Remus stiffens in his hug. The landscape around them dissolves into acid, bubbling and hissing until it all disappears. Only the chill of the subconscious remains. 

“He liessss,” Deceit hisses, tucking Remus close. Remus starts trembling again, chest hitching as tears gather in his eyes. Deceit feels his own slide down his cheeks. “He is wrong. You are Creativity, and Thomas needs you.” 

“Bu-but- Roman-” 

“Is only half of Creativity. Thomas needs all of his Creativity.” 

Deceit lets go, but Remus clings to him. He sobs into Deceit’s stomach and throws his arms around Deceit’s neck when Deceit kneels before him. Deceit holds the smaller side close, tucking Remus’s face into his neck. 

“You can do so much that Roman can’t. Thomas needs you just as much as he needs Roman.” 

Remus’s voice warbles as he speaks, fingers digging painfully into Deceit’s back, “Roman doesn’t want me.” 

“He doesn’t deserve you, and neither does Morality.” 

The child leans back enough to look Deceit in the eyes. He lets one hand go to wipe at Deceit’s cheek, smearing the tears over his scales. The texture seems to fascinate him, and Deceit doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, the snake shifts him onto his hip and gets up, turning back towards the door. The hallway beyond it is dark, crawling with shadows. It hides infinite possibilities. 

It hides a new adventure. 

“I wanna go home,” Remus admits in a small voice, putting his head on Deceit’s shoulder, still gently running his fingertips over the lying side’s scales. 

“You can come home with me. Others have to stick together, right?” 

A tiny smirk sparks new life to Remus’s face. It’s a little malicious, a little twisted, but it makes Deceit smile back. 

“One condition.” 

That throws Deceit off. He hesitates on the threshold of the doorway, looking down at Remus and his mischievous eyes, “What condition?” 

“No lying to me.” 

“A tall order for Deceit,” the snake ponders, stepping through the doorway. The door closes behind them with a creak and plunges the hallway into warm darkness. Their eyes glow, yellow and green, beacons in the black. “But I am willing to accept.” 

Remus settles again with a content hum. 

“Are these real?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can you pull them off?” 

“No.” 

The adventure begins. 


	11. Update

So.... what happened? 

School, mainly. I'm going on a long trip and needed to prep extensively for that weeks in advance. I never forgot about Whumptober, I actually feel incredibly guilty for dropping it so suddenly, but I haven't had the energy or the time to work on any new chapters. 

That being said, I totally intend to finish Whumptober. It might not be done until December, but god damn it, I am going to finish this. I've had such a fun time writing the past chapters and I have lots of ideas for future prompts. There is no way I'm abandoning this. 

I'm so sorry for the wait and I'm sorry for the lack of updates. I'm still going to be on Tumblr, and everyone who is interested is more than welcome to come say hi and ask questions and request small drabbles. I would love the chance to talk more about Dad Deceit.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to try and post one of these every day in October. The key word here is try.  
Length for each prompt will vary and so will order.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr under the same username.


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